Lest We Die
by applythepressure
Summary: She didn't care that they just met or that in the morning when the darkness and alcohol wore off, the flaws would come to light and the plan would likely fall to bits and never happen. She only knew with absolute certainty that she would go with him.


A/N: Let's all give **jandjsalmon** a big round of applause for organizing this Round 4 fic exchange and another round for all the amazingly talented writers! To **blondetate**, I hope you like what my crazy-ass brain came up with from your prompt. This story switches between Violet and Tate's perspectives. Winner of Favorite Sad Feels Fic.

_**Lest We Die**_

God, this party sucked.

Violet looked down to see herself decked out in a tight black dress and heels – the only ones of each she owned, both items of clothing so polar opposite of her normal style and personality that she had to dig around for them in her closet full of maxi skirts and oddly colored cardigans for ten minutes just to find them – and just couldn't believe what the fuck she was thinking.

Well, that was a lie – she wasn't thinking at all at the time, considering that she had just come fresh from a horrible row with her parents, complete with screaming and throwing things and of course, dragging her into the middle of their drama when all she wanted to do was go to her room and shut them out with Kurt Cobain and Morrissey. After the grand gesture of moving across the country away from Boston, her friends, and everything she knew to start over after her mother's miscarriage and her father's subsequent affair with one of his grad students, she would think her parents were obligated to make more of an effort at reconciliation. But if anything, the fights have gotten worse and her parents are going through six dishes and three vases a week on average, so she is not optimistic.

After calling her father some very nasty names that involved his striking resemblance to an anus, which reignited the fight with new vigor, she finally escaped to her room and screamed her head off into her pillow, refusing to add anything more to the noise downstairs that was now so tremendous that she could swear the walls were vibrating.

Or maybe that was just her rage making her shake instead.

She could feel her anger threatening to boil over, like she was a pot left forgotten on the stove with the burners on blast. She almost smashed a few things herself, but she didn't want to be anything like her parents, so she satisfied her with a few cuts to her left wrist, neat and clean rows that she curved like smiles this time instead of her standard straight across lines, just for the irony.

Then she saw the Facebook statuses. She doesn't ever really use social media sites except to keep in touch with her friends in Boston. She finds them to be more suited for the vapid queen bees and meathead jocks whose worlds revolve around the mundane things she often sees in their photo albums and "about me" facts – parties, getting drunk or high, winning the game, gossiping about celebrities' love lives and bemoaning their own. She rolls her eyes when she sees the rapid fire status updates from the same people on her newsfeed, sees the massive picture uploads every Sunday of the kegger from the night before. She hasn't updated her status in months and only has a few photos, mostly of obscure band logos. They are not her at all.

But she can't help but see the statuses.

"What should I wear for the Kappa Lambda Gamma party?"

"KLG hosting party at Tau Omega Alpha. Can't wait!"

"Super excited for KLG tonight!"

And then she had no explanation for what happened next. She could only describe it as pure insanity as she tore through her closet looking for clothes, as she put on mascara and red lipstick, as she snuck out of the house once her parents passed out early, exhausted from their emotional battles, as she walked to the specified house ignoring the catcalls of passersby. But now, as she was standing in the corner of one of the rooms sipping on a mysterious red punch that definitely had cheap vodka in it, the insanity was receding and she was starting to deeply regret her rashness.

It really was her parents who drove her to this, this being her at a frat party alone showing more skin that she'd shown since the pool party she had for her seventh birthday. This, like everything else, was their fault.

And for all the excitement for the party on Facebook, she was not impressed. Sure, the house was nice, quite massive even, but again she wasn't surprised by its splendor, not nearly as overwhelmed and dazzled by it as she could tell some of the other partygoers were by their amazed expressions as they walked through the door – she could practically smell the Greek alumni's money radiating off the paint and expensive furniture. There were decorations everywhere and a very prominently displayed ice luge on a table in the sitting room. The makeshift bar was crowded with people, the brothers behind it quickly making all kinds of lethal concoctions for the clamoring guests. The KLG boys were easily recognizable since they were all wearing preppy navy collared shirts with their letters proudly embroidered on them, which she thought looked ridiculous. She couldn't believe how stupid they were being – she clearly wasn't the only underage girl here, and she would bet that some of the younger KLG brothers weren't of legal age either. All it would take was one phone call, one drunken brother stopped on the sidewalk home, and the lot of them would get busted for serving minors and being intoxicated while underage and it would be no hard task to find out what fraternity they were a part of. She was sure the KLG higher ups would love that phone call from the university. They clearly needed a lesson from her on how to break rules and get away with it – you don't flaunt, you sneak and you shut the fuck up about it.

All of the girls there looked like carbon copies of each other – perfect hair styled to within an inch of its life, perfect nails done in a rainbow of colors, perfect clothes that showed off their perfect bodies. Some were sloppy drunk, screaming the lyrics of the songs loudly and out of tune while dancing on tables, some were making out with brothers in corners, and she was sure still others were doing drugs upstairs. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, judging them for their shallowness, their inability to hold their alcohol, their lack of self-respect, but then she remembered that she looked just like them, at least tonight. That thought didn't sit well with her at all and she could feel the bile rise in her throat. She didn't want to be like them in any way, however superficially.

She was so preoccupied with this new wave of regret washing through her that she didn't notice him approach her.

"Hi. You look like you could use a drink."

She quickly looked up at him, a KLG brother, ready to tell him to go away, irritated that he had interrupted her, but all her harsh words fell away. He was, in a word, beautiful – blonde curls fell into his deep brown eyes, his mouth quirked up in a dimpled smile, his hand reaching out with a red solo cup. She felt trapped by his intense gaze and she could feel her normally brazen confidence slip away, a new girlish shyness taking its place. It felt like he was staring through her to her very soul, that he could see into her deepest, safest places, and she didn't like feeling so stripped, like an apple that someone had peeled to expose the vulnerable flesh beneath. She willed herself not to blush and tried to summon her usual sarcastic self.

"Not that shit you call punch. God, what do you put in it, rubbing alcohol? It tastes like rat poison."

He laughed, throwing the cup into a nearby trashcan.

"You don't want to know. Usually no one complains because they just want to get drunk. Quality is a bonus, not a requirement."

"Then they deserve to drink that shit if they can't appreciate good booze."

He laughed again.

"So you're tougher to please. What do you prefer?"

"Whiskey on the rocks."

He looked surprised at first, but then she could see the hint of a wicked grin on his face. She couldn't help it when one of her own begins to tug at the corners of her mouth.

"Really? Most girls like that fruity stuff."

She rolled her eyes.

"I'm not like most girls."

"I can tell. Well, it's a good thing I have my flask." He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a steel flask, and handed it to her.

"And it's a great thing that I like whiskey, too."

She laughed as she unscrewed the top and took a swig, sighing contentedly as the slow burn of the liquid traveled down her throat and warmed her stomach. She looked at him again, his intense gaze meeting her own. Later she would say that this was the moment everything changed, but at the time, she would only admit that she felt a slight stirring in her gut, like the first tentative flap of a butterfly wing. She had no idea that this was the start of something new, beautiful, and dangerous, that her life was now forever tied to this boy, whose name she didn't even know yet. She only chuckled as she tilted the flask to her lips again and drank more, all the while keeping her eyes locked with his. As she handed the flask back to him, she smacked her lips as he laughed at her boldness.

"I suppose it is."

* * *

They spent the rest of the night together, laughing at the drunken girls falling all over themselves and the ridiculous competitiveness between the beer pong teams, even taking bets on if one particular match would come to blows and which guy would be the first to get knocked out. The whiskey in the flask was long gone, but she felt another warmth that had nothing to do with the alcohol. He had moved closer into her personal space as the time they spent together lengthened, but she didn't feel threatened by the encroachment, his arm around her shoulders, his hand briefly touching her arm or knee. She didn't get the feeling that he was only doing this to butter her up to make it easier to convince her to sleep with him later. She could feel that he genuinely wanted to talk to her, get to know her, even. She could feel her walls, which had so successfully shut everyone out for so long, crumble more with every laugh shared, every silly secret he whispered in her ear.

And if she would admit it, she wanted him closer.

They had settled outside on a bench far back in the yard. She could see the overflow of partyers on the patio and upper deck, but they were far enough away from the house that nobody would recognize or overhear them. And even if someone had thought to look over at them, they would only see just another boy and girl off by themselves and probably decide not to interrupt. So after she assured herself of their privacy, she decided to ask a question that had been nagging at her all night.

"So why are you in a frat? You don't seem like a frat boy at all."

He smiled at her, but the faraway look in his eyes betrayed that the answer he was about to give her did not have pleasant origins.

"You're right, I'm not. But my mother insisted I rush. It's very important to her, being from the south. So I did, but trust me, I don't particularly like it."

"Your mother sounds terrible, forcing you to do something you don't want to."

"She is. I never call her mother, just Constance. She treats me and my siblings like shit."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged, but the way he squeezed her hand a little harder made her think that he wasn't indifferent to her sympathy.

"If anything, being forced to rush gives me access to a good KLG alumni network and hopefully that will get me a good job. I'm planning on getting the fuck out of Dodge as soon as I graduate, make some money, and get all of us away from her."

He turned to look her in the eyes again, staying silent for a few seconds as he studied her.

"What about you?"

"Excuse me?"

The look of surprise on her face made him chuckle.

"I can just tell. Your eyes are like mine."

"What do you mean?"

He exhaled, his face scrunching up as he tried to explain to her what he meant.

"I don't know how to describe it. It's like your eyes are older, because they've seen things they shouldn't have, so you had to grow up really fast and learn to deal with shit most other kids don't. Your eyes show that struggle. They're strong. And they miss nothing."

She inhaled sharply. How did he know that?

"You can tell all that just by looking at me?"

He chuckled darkly, leaning over to pluck a flower from the rosebush growing next to the bench.

"What can I say, I'm good at reading people. That's what made me first come over to you. That, and your wrists."

"How did you –"

Her hands reflexively went to cover them, both carefully adorned with large cuff bracelets to hide the lines, but he stopped her.

"I know the signs. You don't have to hide them from me."

He showed her the many jagged scars on his own wrists, most of them long healed, but she could still see the anger and pain that must have caused him to carve his body in such a raw way.

"We're the same in releasing the pain, too."

He offered her the rose. It was beautiful, a brilliant red and just about to open its petals.

"For you."

She reached out to take it from him, being careful not to prick herself on the thorns. She gently caressed the bloom before looking up at him to see him smiling albeit a bit sadly.

"Thank you."

They stared back out at the party for a few minutes before she broke the silence.

"Well, you're right. My parents aren't much better."

She sighed heavily, turning the rose over and over again in her hands.

"They dragged me all the way here from Boston to start over after my mom's miscarriage and my dad's affair, but all they do is fight. Sometimes I wonder if they forget about me until one of them can use me in an argument against the other."

"That sounds awful. When you love someone, you shouldn't ever hurt them."

"It sucks. I don't get why they don't just divorce because it's obvious they're miserable and hate each other. I can't wait until I'm old enough to leave and be on my own."

He took one of her hands in his and she looked at him, her mouth slightly open in surprise.

"It looks like we both have things we want to escape from."

"Yeah."

They looked back out at the party in silence for a few minutes until suddenly he turned back to her, gripping her hand in his.

"Run away with me."

"What?"

She thought he must be joking, the impairment of judgment from the alcohol finally poking through his exterior façade of sobriety, but the intensity of his voice, the urgency in his eyes, indicated that he is deadly sober and deadly serious.

"Run away with me. We both have no home to return to. I could go back to get my siblings tonight. We could leave, right now, and never look back."

She just looked at him in disbelief. How could she go with him? This whole thing was insane.

"Stop teasing me. We just met less than twenty four hours ago. I – I don't even know your name, and you want me to run away with you."

He looked perplexed that somehow they had spent all this time together and yet had forgotten to share this first piece of information that everyone shares when they first meet someone.

"I'm Tate."

He raised his eyebrows to ask her the same question.

"Violet. My name is Violet."

"Violet."

He repeated her name like he was tasting it and she blushed at how sensually he had said it.

"Tate, look, I like you, but how on earth would we do this, if I even decided to go with you? I mean, we have no plan, no money, and our parents would surely hunt us down."

"We could make it. I don't know how, but I just feel like with you I could do it. I could finally break free from Constance. We could have the life we want."

He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it gently.

"Violet, please. Come with me."

God, when he said her name like that, she thought she might actually do it, just throw all caution to the wind and take off with this beautiful, mysterious boy that she just met, the supreme act of spontaneity and excitement and defiance rolled up in one neat package.

She looked back into his deep brown eyes, now almost as black as the night outside. Did she want to go with him? Not if she was able to go, not if she could afford to go, not if she thought it was possible.

Did she _want_ to go?

She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly sirens started blaring and he jumped up, running for the house, tugging her along with him.

"Fuck, it's the cops. You need to get out of here."

She quickly followed him as he bounded through the bushes separating the two houses into the yard of the next sorority house. He crouched down, back flat against the bricks, pulling her down next to him as they watched the cops storm the entrance. He turned to her and cupped her face in his hands.

"Okay, it looks like they are all in the house. Cut through the backyards until you are on the next street down, then get back on the sidewalk."

She nodded – as safe as it might be in the backyards, she would run the risk of being spotted by a sorority girl or house mother still up at this late hour and getting nailed for trespassing.

"Go as fast as you can without looking suspicious. If any cops show up, hide. Be careful."

He looked over his shoulder to check that the police were all still inside. She started to get up, but he quickly pulled her back down and smashed his mouth against hers.

The kiss was over before she even registered what had happened, but there was no mistaking the moisture of his tongue lingering on her lips and his eyes staring back at hers alit with fire.

"I'm sorry, I just couldn't let you go tonight without kissing you."

She just stared back at him, utterly content to get lost in his eyes, wondering why the hell he would be apologizing about kissing her when that is exactly what she had wanted, probably since the moment he offered her that horrible punch.

"Will you come with me? It may not be tonight or tomorrow, but someday. Someday soon I will come for you and we'll run away together."

She nodded. She didn't care that they just met or that in the morning when the darkness and alcohol wore off, the flaws would come to light and the plan would likely fall to bits and never happen. She only knew with absolute certainty that she would go with him.

The sweep of flashlights illuminated the backyard, but thankfully the shadow of the house hid them.

"They're checking for runners. You better go."

"But what about you?"

He smiled ruefully.

"My frat is the host. I have to stay and help take the fall. If I bailed, my brothers would be so pissed at me that I wouldn't be let in our house."

He caressed her cheek slowly, as if memorizing how her skin felt.

"Goodbye. For now."

Then she was running through the yards and she didn't even notice the thorns of the rose digging into her palms until she was home in her bed, dreaming of a boy with blonde hair and piercing dark eyes and the feeling of his chapped lips on hers.

* * *

She killed herself two weeks later.

"Tragic suicide of high school girl shakes community" was the headline on the nightly news.

Accidental overdose on sleeping pills, according to the coroner.

He felt numb when he saw the news report, her picture prominently displayed on his screen, a video of her parents trying not to cry, her father holding her mother's hand at all times. He hated them because it took the death of their only child to reconcile them. And it was them that made her do it, of that he had no doubt. One last argument, one last straw, and she broke down.

Then he saw the house and his heart stopped.

She lived next door to him.

Ice cold agony shot through his veins. The wail of anguish half-stifled in his throat became the cry of some wounded animal or vengeful wraith, the mourning call of something not from this world. He wanted to sob, to scream, to break things. How close he was to her made her death all the more heart-shattering.

He could have saved her. If he had gone to her sooner, she would be alive and they would be far away from here.

What a cruel world.

He kicked in the screen of the TV, not caring about the shower of glass raining down on him.

* * *

He became depressed. He stopped going out. He rarely ate. He continued doing his schoolwork, though only because he knew he needed good grades to graduate and get that job which was his lifeline out of here. The texts and calls from his brothers went unanswered. The handles of vodka and his emergency stash of coke quickly disappeared. He became an insomniac because he can't sleep without having nightmares – of her crying for him as she lay down on her bed, of her calling out his name as she died, of him trying to find her in the pitch blackness that was the beyond.

His brothers started becoming really concerned when he didn't care that Madison Montgomery, a movie star who had recently become very famous, was rumored to be coming to their party that night. Gabe, the president of the fraternity, bounded into Tate's room with the news, only to look gobsmacked when Tate responded to his excitement with only a shrug.

"Tate, man, she's gorgeous and famous. How can you not be stoked?"

"I'm just not interested, Gabe."

"But I thought you wanted to do show business, man. I mean, if you can make an impression on her, she could open doors for you."

"I just don't have the energy tonight. Butter her up yourself if you're so into her."

"Tate, look."

Gabe sat down on Tate's bed, reaching under it to the minifridge to grab a beer. He popped it open and took a sip before sighing.

"Me and the guys have noticed that something's up. We're not really sure what happened and I don't want to pry into your business, but you cannot keep going on like this. So please, at least think about coming tonight? It might do you some good."

As Gabe walked out, Tate only stared out the window, wishing desperately to see her face in the people walking below.

* * *

He still was in his room when Gabe burst through the door, clad in only a hastily made sheet toga, sloshing the contents of his red solo cup onto the carpet, already half-drunk if the slight slur of his speech was any indication.

"Dude, she wants to meet you!"

"Who? And why are you in a toga?"

Gabe rolled his eyes before taking a shaky step forward and slapping him on the back. Some of his drink splashed on Tate's desk, just barely missing his print version of the report on her death. He had looked it up one night when he couldn't sleep because of the nightmares. It had a picture of her giving a little half-smile, like she knew some embarrassing secret of the photographer. He had cut out her photo from the rest of the article and taped it to his desk so he could look at her; it was only black and white and relatively small, but he didn't care, he just needed her close to him. Tate tried to swallow his anger at Gabe for almost spilling his drink on her story.

"Don't worry about the toga. I lost a bet, but it actually worked on in your favor because that is what made her notice me!"

"Who?"

"Madison Montgomery! I've been chatting you up to her for the past twenty minutes and she wants to meet you!"

Gabe hopefully searched Tate's face for a favorable reaction, but then visibly deflated at his lack of response. He chugged down the rest of his drink, probably to stop himself from saying something not so sympathetic to Tate's situation. But his look of subtle reproach was too obvious to miss.

"C'mon, man, a thank you would be nice considering I sacrificed my own chance of boning her for you."

"Thanks."

But Tate wasn't thankful because he didn't ask for Gabe to do this and he definitely didn't want to talk to Madison. He was about as charming as a puddle of muddy water right now.

His apology seemed to perk Gabe back up a little and ease his easier disappointment.

"You're fucking welcome. Now suck it up and get out there and talk to her!"

Seeing that Gabe wasn't going to leave him alone until he at least made an effort, he quickly threw on some clean clothes and halfheartedly headed down to the basement behind Gabe. He pushed open the door to see Gabe talking excitedly to a blonde in a skintight mini-dress with sparkly heels that were so high he wasn't sure how she kept her balance, especially on the sticky, drink-covered floor. Gabe quickly pointed him out to the girl, who then sauntered up to him and gave him a quick once-over, smiling seductively afterwards. He could see the confidence of a girl who always got her way coming off her in waves, the way heat distorts the horizon in a mirage.

"So, you are the famous Tate I've been hearing about."

"Yup, that would be me."

His eyes flitted around the party, looking for a face he knew would never be there, but still he couldn't help himself.

She cleared her throat, obviously not used to be ignored, and he made himself focus back on her. Even in the dim lighting and hazy air, he could see that she was one of those girls who used too much makeup. Her eyes, meant to be dramatic with their black kohl and winged eyeliner, just looked sunken and bruised. Her lips drawn out in bright red made it look like she was bleeding.

"You're not very talkative."

"Sorry, I'm not good at making conversation."

That was a lie, but he didn't think telling her the truth – that he just didn't want to make conversation _with her_ – would go over very well.

"Well, then, do you want to dance?"

No, not really, not with her. He could already tell she would annoy him with her arrogance and shallowness and he had had enough of all that with Constance. He was about to decline when he saw Gabe and about ten of his brothers covertly watching him out of the corners of their eyes. He knew he didn't have a choice, but he still hesitated just a moment before accepting her outstretched hand.

"Sure."

* * *

He finally drove up to the house that he hated more than anything as the sun was slipping below the horizon. It was the day after graduation and his brothers had invited him out to party, which he gladly accepted – any excuse to delay going home was a good one. But now he had to face the thing he had been dreading since the spring semester of his senior year had been coming to a close – moving back in with Constance until he got a job and could afford a place elsewhere.

And her house would be there, empty now for two years, ever since her parents moved back to Boston to try to heal from their grief. The "For Sale" sign outside the house was worn from the weather and it looked like no matter how many times the realtor dropped the price, no one was interested in buying a house where someone had killed herself. He couldn't really blame them, even if he didn't believe in that all New Age-y, negative energy, bad spirits shit. How could you try to live in a house when all you could think about was the opposite of living?

It had been two years since that party when he met her. When she first passed away, he didn't think he would recover from the pain. But as time passed, the pain lessened; it was still there but more of a dull ache than the sharp stabbing it had been before. He stopped having as many nightmares. He started dating Madison, much to the extreme jealousy of all his friends, but what they didn't know was how it wasn't working out. He kept thinking that the longer they dated, maybe his feelings for her would grow. But unfortunately they hadn't despite Madison's best efforts and as graduation loomed closer, his thoughts began turning more and more to Violet and the pain that had lessened began to grow again.

"There's my sweet boy!"

He ignored his mother as she came out the front door and down the front steps, her hair perfectly dyed and styled, her feet ensconced in black high heels, her wrists and neck scented with some expensive perfume from Paris or London.

"Let me look at you! Oh my, how you have grown! It's cruel for you to stay away for so long when your mother misses you."

He closed his eyes as he let her cup his face. He gave her a saccharine smile and he could tell that she thought he was going to say something nice to her, like he has missed her or that he was happy to be home, both of which were completely untrue. He never loved anything more than giving her false hope and when he opened his eyes, he shot her a venomous look and spat his greeting at her.

"Oh, Constance, cruelness is your specialty, not mine."

She recovered from his insult quickly, but he still smirked triumphantly at the almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw. There was nothing quite like saying awful things to people who deserve it with a nice big smile on his face.

"Well, you must be tired. I'll make you something to eat while you get your bags."

He scoffed as she walked away – Constance couldn't cook if her life depended on it. She'd much rather make up her calories in liquor.

He started dragging his suitcases out from his car, plopping them unceremoniously onto the still hot asphalt. At least her offering to make dinner got him out of her presence for a little while longer –

Wait, what was that?

He had just glimpsed her house out of the corner of his eye, but he thought he saw something in the upper left window.

He looked back at the window to study it, but there was nothing besides the dust and grime from no one washing the windows in two years.

Maybe he was imagining things. He had always had a penchant for being a dreamer, according to Constance. He probably saw a shadow. Maybe a bird had flown past the window. Maybe a squirrel had rustled the branches near it. He strained to see if there was any obvious reason for movement near the window – a flock of birds, someone working on the power lines – but everything was still in the early summer heat.

Maybe he only saw something there because he wished to see someone there.

His phone buzzed. He already knew who it would be and he couldn't help groaning, though he silently admitted to himself that it's pretty bad if he is dreading to hear from his supposedly serious girlfriend of two years whom he is in love with.

He knew he would get hell from her later if he neglected her message, so he pulled out his phone to answer her, punching in his security code on his shiny new iPhone and about to text back to her to say that no, he can't go out with her parents tonight, no it's not because he doesn't like them, he already has plans.

But as his fingers were flying across the keyboard, he saw movement again and this time he didn't miss the face at the window.

* * *

It was Violet.

His mouth dropped open in disbelief. His hand followed suit, resulting in him almost dropping his suitcase on his foot, but at the last second he hopped out of the way, his eyes still firmly rooted on the window. A million thoughts and a million more questions were racing through his brain – it was like the times he did uppers, though without the paranoia and the horrible crash later – yet time seemed to slow down in contrast, the first few seconds of him gazing at her, the girl that he had lost and now against all odds had found again, feeling more like hours.

There was no way he would mistake her. He saw her every night in his dreams for weeks, had memorized every dimple, every eyelash, every freckle. The girl in the window had to be Violet.

But how was she there in the window, looking virtually unchanged compared to their first night which seems so long ago, when she should be six feet under?

Suddenly, as if she could feel the heat of his gaze, she looked down at him and their eyes locked. He saw the quickest flash of recognition on her face before she disappeared.

Disappeared?

What was going on?

He hastily finished bringing his luggage up to his room, almost bounding up the stairs two by two, ignoring the burning in his arms as he repeatedly carried up three boxes instead of two. As he worked, his mind was whirring with ideas of how to ditch Constance, who surely would try to insist on family time, and get over there as soon as possible.

Sweat was pouring down his face and back as he dumped the final suitcase onto his bed, and he ripped his shirt off, throwing it to the floor. He stood in the middle of his room, panting heavily, Violet running his mind like a mantra.

Violet.

She's here.

She's come back to him.

"Tate, dear, dinner's ready."

He could hear his mother's voice calling for him up the stairs, but he ignored her and jumped in the shower. He needed time to think about how he was going to approach her and he wasn't going to get the peace and quiet he needed while trying to eat Constance's burnt potatoes and dry chicken and listening to her inane prattle.

* * *

It was late before he was finally able to sneak over to the house. After firmly rebuffing Constance's attempts to engage him in conversation as he quickly grabbed some macaroni salad and cheese from the fridge, pointedly ignoring the food on the table, he had retreated back to his room to wait her out. He could hear the clicking of her heels approach his room a few times, but she never knocked, so he guessed she finally had given up pretending that his time away had gotten her back in his good graces and that they could be the perfect family she had always aspired to have.

Good. The sooner, the better.

It was about one in the morning now. The crickets were out chirping in full force, the beginning of the summer heralding their takeover of people's lovingly manicured yards. He was glad for the noise – it would help obscure the sounds of his footsteps when he was outside. He quietly crept out of his room and down the stairs. He peered around the bannister into the kitchen, breaking into a huge grin when he saw her slumped over the table with an empty bottle of scotch next to her. She was dead to the world for now; he could probably start shooting out the windows above the sink and she would not wake up. He bitterly wished it would be forever and the deadly thought to just kill her entered his mind.

He couldn't say that he hadn't entertained such violent fantasies before. He had visions of killing his classmates in high school, which unfortunately had landed him in multiple therapists' offices and under an intense regimen of antidepressants for the majority of those years. Many nights, when he was bruised from her drunken attacks, he had concocted new ways of killing his vile mother, reveling in the feeling of her fear as he retook his power from her by shooting her, stabbing her, dismembering her over and over again. Those particular fantasies he had been smart enough to keep to himself. Thankfully the summer before he started college, he had played pretend good enough to get off the drugs and out of the chairs. For the most part, he honestly did not have them much anymore, but there were times when he regressed and had to fight down the urge with logic, like now.

As much as he wanted to, offing Constance now would most likely just land him in jail or on death row, depending on how horrifically he killed her. He wouldn't have time to hide the body, clean up the house, and form a solid alibi. All the police would have to do is look at his medical records and family history and he would be an instant suspect anyway. He would most likely have to go on the run at some point and that would take him away from Violet. He would probably never see her again. He couldn't do that, not now, not so soon when he just found her again.

So he just slipped by Constance's sleeping form, contenting himself with staring daggers at the back of her head and nabbing her almost full carton of cigarettes from her purse.

He closed the back door quietly and sneaked through the back yard, jumping over the bushes separating the two. In the dark the house looked sinister, like it was watching him like a mad scientist would silently observe his subjects, regarding their screams of agony as they underwent his twisted experiments with only clinical curiosity. He quickly approached the back door of the house, prepared to bust his way in, but he was surprised to have the door swing open as he lightly pushed it.

The back door opened right into the kitchen, which he was thankfully able to see due to the full moon that night. He was surprised to see that it was as clean as it was, but then again, it was on the market. Maybe the realtor had recently come over to clean it up for a showing.

"Violet? Violet, where are you?"

He had only just whispered her name when he thought he saw the shadow of a person to his left. He quickly followed it into what must be the study.

"Violet, are you here? Is that you?"

"She's here alright, but I'm not her."

He whipped around to see a girl leaning against the bookcase, her hand on her hip. She laughed at his shock and walked closer to him, her eyes surveying him like he was a particularly tasty piece of meat at the butcher's shop.

"Not too often do we get a live one in here."

Now he could see her a bit better. She was taller than Violet. Her reddish hair hung limply around her face. She had smudged make up around her eyes, as if she had been crying earlier. She smiled at him, but it had too much teeth and he couldn't help thinking how predatory it was.

"This must be my lucky day."

Wait, how did she move that fast? She was too close to him now and he could hear the alarm bells loudly sounding in his head. His skin prickled as she reached out to run her hand down his arm and his hair stood up on the back of his neck, almost as if it was trying to pull him away from her. He backed up slowly until he felt the wall behind him.

"Where's Violet? Do you know her?"

"Yeah, I know her. But why would you want to talk about her when I'm here?"

Despite the girl's calm tone and innocent tilt of her head, he knew a warning when he heard it. He had to stall her until Violet showed up.

"I'm much prettier than her. You could come with me instead. I could show you a good time."

He just nodded his head, hoping to placate her to buy a few more precious seconds. He fumbled around, trying to find something, anything, that he could use to protect himself. His hand gripped a fire poker and he quickly swung it in front of him, hoping to put more distance between him and the girl.

"Stay away from me. I only want to talk to Violet."

She just laughed at him.

"You can't kill me. I'm already dead."

She pulled out a knife from behind her back and twirled it in her fingers.

"But I can kill you instead."

She suddenly was right in front of him, both of her hands gripping the gleaming blade above her head, ready to plunge it into her heart, and he couldn't block it in time, and this was how he was going to die, he was never going to see her again, he had come so close –

"Go away!"

Then everything went black.

* * *

When he woke up, he didn't recognize the room he was in. The bed he was laying on had deep purple sheets quite unlike the blue ones he had on his own bed next door. He cautiously sat up, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings – a jar of baby doll heads on the desk, old CDs scattered everywhere, dresses folded over the top of a chair.

He remembered the girl, her eyes belying her madness, the knife raised above him so eager to dive into his heart. He reflexively reached to his chest, half-expecting to feel puncture wounds, but there were none, just smooth, unbroken skin. He quickly padded himself down, searching for any sign of injury, before he felt eyes on him.

And then there she was, standing at the foot of the bed, watching him silently.

"Violet?"

His mouth was dry and her name came out as a hoarse whisper.

She didn't say anything to him. She was as still as a statue as she examined him, her eyes glittering in the moonlight streaming through the windows. She finally turned and began walking away towards the door and terror jolted through him.

"Wait, Violet, please don't leave!"

She paused, her hands still at her sides. He jumped out of the bed and ran to her, clutching her hand in his and whirling her around to face him. Her hand felt like ice, nothing at all like the warm, alive girl he kissed that night.

His eyes searched hers desperately, trying to find any answers he could, but they betrayed nothing to him. There were so many things that he didn't comprehend, so many questions that he should ask, but he didn't know where to start.

"I don't understand."

She sighed deeply; he could almost feel the effort it took for her to force the air into her lungs, like she was an old woman who hadn't been able to take a deep breath on her own in a long, long time.

"I could say the same myself."

"What?"

She pulled her hand out of his and went to go sit on the windowsill, her arms crossed in front of her like a barrier. She continued to scrutinize him as though he was an imposter and she was just waiting for him to slip up and shape-shift back to his true form. Her intense examination made him nervous despite the fact that he couldn't fail whatever bullshit tests she was running, so words just began pouring out.

"How are you still here? You died. I thought I'd lost you forever and then I see you in the window tonight after so long and – and –"

She cut him off, her voice brusque and impatient.

"I'm a ghost, Tate. When you die in this house, you stay. I unfortunately didn't get that memo beforehand. So here I am."

"What?"

"Look, I don't know any more than what I told you. All I know is that I'm stuck here for who knows how long with the undead world's most shitty housemates. You already had the pleasure of meeting one."

"That girl?"

"Her name is Hayden. She was the student my father had his affair with. Apparently she came out here to try to get him back and somehow she ended up dead. That's all I got from her before I had to bash her head in."

Tate just looked her aghast. Who was this girl in front of him? She seemed so bitter, so folded in on herself, like there was an invisible weight pressing against her and forcing her to shrink smaller. And she was, in his mind, inexplicably angry towards him.

"She was trying to stab me with a kitchen knife, so I pushed her down the stairs. I didn't have much of a choice and I'm not about to sit down and chat with her about the dirty, bloody details as I like to avoid her company. Her favorite hobby is killing people for kicks, though she gets bored with us since we just come back eventually. No finality to it, not as fun. So when you wandered in, she couldn't resist."

The way she talked about his almost-death was so matter-of-fact, so devoid of any emotion, that she might have well been reading a grocery list.

"Did you save me?"

"I didn't have to. You did something to her just as I popped in to stop her. You somehow threw her back against the wall, but you didn't use your hands. It was like you threw her with your mind or something, I don't know."

She shrugged when she saw his look of obvious disbelief.

"Then you just collapsed on the floor and I yelled at her to go away while she was still disoriented. Then I brought you here."

What the hell was she talking about? How was that possible for him to mind-throw anyone? It was just impossible. But then again, he thought seeing her again was impossible until less than twelve hours ago, so maybe he shouldn't be so quick to rule anything out.

"I threw her?"

"Yeah. Hence the thing I don't understand."

He didn't understand, either. He didn't understand any of it. This was not at all how he thought their reunion would be – her eyes flashing angrily, her arms crossed defensively, her voice full of suspicion. He was so happy to finally see her again. Didn't she know that? Didn't she know how much pain he had been in because of her death? Why wasn't she as happy to see him?

"Why are you so angry with me? Aren't you glad to see me?"

"You need to leave."

The sharpness of her tone startled him.

"What? Why?"

"Because I said so."

Okay, now he was getting more than a bit pissed off. That excuse doesn't work on anyone past the age of five, so she was crazy if he thought he would accept that answer, especially considering the circumstances.

"That's not an answer."

She gave him a look not unlike one a parent would give to a petulant child having a tantrum in a store or restaurant. She then walked back to him, gripping his wrist hard so that her nails uncomfortably dug into his skin.

"I don't care. You have to go. Now."

"No."

She suddenly yanked him down to her height; they were so close to each other, their noses almost touching, that in any other situation he thought that she was trying to kiss him. But this time, she wanted to make sure he heard every single word she was about to say.

"Fine, you want to play this way, we'll play. Either you leave right now with me escorting you or you stay, I leave, and you can telekinesis your own damn way out through all the murderous ghosts waiting in the hallway right now. Just make sure not to pass the fuck out this time. Your choice."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm the only thing that is keeping them at bay right now. The house is hungry and that makes them antsy and when they're antsy, you're in deep shit."

He looked at her to see if he could find any weakness in her to exploit so he could stay, but her face was determined. His only choice was to leave and he'd much rather it be with her than alone. He ran his hands through his hair in exasperation before sneaking a glance at the door, wondering if he could sense all these murderous ghosts she had mentioned crouching on the other side waiting to strike, but nothing seemed amiss to him, at least. However, the widening of her eyes in fear made it clear that she could obviously sense something he couldn't and whatever it was didn't seem good.

"Okay, I'll leave with you."

"Smart move."

* * *

They made it to the yard before he couldn't hold it in anymore. Her abruptness, her coldness, her anger…what was her deal anyway? And what did she mean by the house being hungry? The way she led him out of the house, her arm outstretched so that they were as far apart as possible, like an adult tearing a little child or puppy away from a distraction, just rubbed salt in the wound.

"What the hell is your problem, Violet?"

She pinched the bridge of her nose like she was trying to stave off a headache, or more likely in this case, trying to summon the patience to deal with him.

"Just stop, Tate."

He felt both his anger and his voice rising.

"No, I am not going to stop until you tell me what the fuck is going on."

His voice was like a gunshot in the still night. She quickly looked around, afraid that his voice had awoken nearly half the block, and then shot him a look of annoyance. She pointed to a brick ledge off to their right which lined the driveway and was protected from view by a few trees and bushes.

"Come to that ledge at midnight tomorrow. I'll tell you everything then."

Then she was gone.

* * *

The next day went by as slowly as molasses. He halfheartedly looked up job openings for most of the morning, but he couldn't make himself concentrate on them long enough to actually edit his resume or work on his cover letter. Madison called him around lunchtime, asking if he could meet her at Briarcliff, a posh new restaurant that had just opened up. He really didn't want to, but considering he blew her off the past few times, he had to go or else she would be asking questions and that was the last thing he needed right now. His whole world had been completely turned upside down multiple times just in the past twenty four hours; he didn't need a pissed off girlfriend nosing around in his business on top of it.

As he ate his pasta alfredo and Madison picked at her salad, he listened to her drone on about the drama on the set of her new movie. Apparently two of her costars were found in flagrante delicto and both their spouses are seeking divorce. She seems masochistically excited about it and he interrupts her in the middle of some juicy details she apparently heard from the sound director.

"Why are you so happy that two marriages were just ruined?"

She looked surprised, then embarrassed, like he caught her doing something bad, and then tried to backpedal, her eyes glued to her hands as she suddenly became very interested in the state of her manicure.

"Oh, well, I'm not happy about that, of course. It's just generating a lot of hype about the movie, which is good publicity for me, you know."

He couldn't believe her. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood up, the chair loudly scraping against the patio bricks. He was sure he got some annoyed looks from the other diners for disrupting them, but he quite frankly couldn't give a shit.

"I got to run. Job applications."

He quickly kissed her on the cheek and left. He hoped that she felt awkward having to finish her lunch by herself, though he knew she would probably call up one of her girlfriends and bitch about what an awful boyfriend he was. He didn't understand why she stuck around when he really didn't treat her very well, but he was sure she had her reasons that made her stay, though he couldn't fathom what they were.

He decided to take the scenic route back to the house since it took him by the ocean. The beach was one of his favorite places – when everything got to be too much, especially in high school before he escaped Constance, he would go there and listen to the waves until his rage and depression drained away.

He saw a tiny flower shop that had opened on the opposite side of the road from the beach. A basket of roses of all different colors was prominently displayed next to the open door. A small old woman was sweeping the around the outside of the shop, her skin tanned by the sun and wrinkled all over. Before he knew what he was doing, he had stopped the car and was strolling towards the shop.

"Excuse me, madam?"

She looked up at him and smiled. Her mouth didn't have any teeth left.

"May I have a rose?" He gestured towards the basket.

She went over and, after a few seconds of deliberation, plucked out a rose. As she handed it to him, he couldn't help thinking how similar it looked to the one he gave Violet that night – a brilliant red, petals just about to open, symbolic of new beginnings and possibilities.

"How much are they?"

She held up one finger. After he paid her the single dollar, he got back in his car and revved the engine, gazing out at the open water. The sun glinted off the waves, making it seem like the water was dusted in brilliant glitter. He took a deep breath of the salty air and looked over at the rose laying on the passenger seat.

Suddenly the thought of returning back home didn't seem as bad.

* * *

It was finally quarter to midnight. Constance was passed out in her bedroom, this time due to a combination of Ambien and whiskey, but he still took precautions when he snuck out of the house. He didn't want anyone else seeing him and taking it to mind to tell Constance. He approached the ledge quietly, scanning the area for any intruders or dangers, and when he ascertained there were none, he swung his legs up on the ledge and rested his back against the arch rising above it. He hadn't been there for more than a second before she appeared opposite him, her fingers clutched around a cigarette.

"You're early."

"I couldn't wait."

He brought the rose out and handed it to her.

"For you."

He saw her flinch as she remembered what he did as well – when he gave her the rose on that bench when they first met. She met his eyes for a brief moment and even though it was dark, he swore he saw her blush.

"Thank you."

She laid the rose beside her, careful to not crush it under her feet. They spent a few minutes in silence, each studying the other, before she nudged his foot with her own.

"Well, I suppose you have a ton of burning questions. So ask."

"What happened to you?"

The question he had wanted to ask the most came out all in a rush, like a dam that had finally released the mountain of water behind it. He had been asking himself that question for two years, had spent hours trying to answer it, but it was like trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces from the box – he could never get the complete picture on his own. She looked at him like she was disappointed that this was his first question, like she had expected him to be more original or at least tactful. She sighed, blowing smoke out of her nose and mouth like a dragon.

"I was afraid you would start with that one."

She looked up at the sky, as if trying to draw strength from all the stars above her, as if all those glowing orbs of gas and fire could infuse her with their power and propel her through this uncomfortable trip down memory lane.

"It was stupid, really. I got beat up by these bitches at school because apparently smoking was not allowed in the quad. Leah was the one that started it. Real queen bee, with all her little minion bitches to do her bidding."

She rubbed her arm unconsciously. He wondered if they had injured her there.

"They knocked me to the ground, got in some punches and scratches. But then I spat in Leah's face. The look on her face was priceless. Then I got the hell out of there."

She smirked at the memory.

"When I came home, my parents dragged me into probably their most epic screaming match yet. They didn't even notice that I was bleeding until five minutes into the fight. Then the school called to say that I had been suspended for smoking and then both of them started yelling at me. They didn't even listen to my side of the story."

She took another deep inhale, whittling the cigarette down to its nub.

"I was so tired by that point, of everything, of them, of my life. All I wanted to do was sleep, so I stole some of my mother's pills and I just took too many. I only wanted to pass out for a day or two. It wasn't even on purpose."

He kept listening, rapt.

"I woke up the next morning only to watch my parents freaking out over my body and calling the paramedics. It was already too late by that point. I had died sometime in the night, which was a shock to hear for me since as far as I could tell, I was alive and standing right next to everyone. I guess it didn't really hit me until I tried to leave the property and kept respawning in my room."

She dug the cigarette into the brick, twisting it back and forth vigorously like she was trying to erase the memories that she was telling him.

"Some of the other ghosts finally came around and clued me in about how things work in the house. And I've been stuck here ever since."

She cocked her head, studying him.

"Now I got some questions of my own. First off, what did you do to Hayden?"

He shrugged.

"I honestly don't know. Everything went black and I thought I was a total goner. The next thing I remember is waking up in your room."

"Hm, that's odd. Maybe you're a witch or an X-Man or something."

She gave a sharp little cackle and he cracked a smile.

"I don't think that's the case."

"Well, you never know. I didn't believe in ghosts and look at me now."

They shared a laugh.

"So what are you doing back at Constance's place? I know you wouldn't live there by choice."

"I just graduated school and I don't have a job yet. L.A. is really expensive and I need to lock down a job and save some money before I can afford to move. So it looks like I'm stuck here too."

She smiled at him and he felt that hopefully he had melted the ice enough to ask the other major question that had been nagging at him.

"So why were you so angry at me yesterday? Weren't you excited to see me?"

The smile slid off her face as she took in his hurt expression.

"I'm sorry. I think you have it all wrong."

"Then, please enlighten me."

But his response was gentle, not sarcastic.

"It wasn't that I wasn't excited to see you. It was quite the opposite really."

He reached out to take her hand in his. She looked down at their entwined hands and then up at him, earnestly wishing for him to understand why she had been so cold.

"I was angry because I had made my peace with being stuck in this godforsaken house. I had given you up. I thought I would never see you again."

She sucked in a shaky breath.

"And then to see you yesterday…It was like a punch to the gut. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think. I was in complete shock. It was like my mind had overloaded."

She felt silent. He gripped her hand reassuringly, quietly urging her onward.

"I've spent so long trying to content myself with my fate. All that work went down the drain the moment I saw you because you reminded me of my life, of what could have happened if I hadn't been so goddamn stupid."

She thunked her head against the bricks to emphasize her point.

"And then when I saw Hayden, when I saw what she was going to do, I was so afraid. I, who hadn't been afraid in years, was scared to my core because you were going to die because of me. I felt helpless and that made me angry at you for putting yourself in danger. I'm sorry."

He reached forward to raise her chin up. Her eyes were shining with unfallen tears.

"It's okay. I understand."

They both were silent for a few minutes, just listening to the insects of the night chirp and hiss and sing.

"Violet?"

"Yes?"

"I know you said the house was dangerous, but…can I still come over to visit you?"

She opened her mouth to say no. He knew that she would say no even though she wanted to see him too, that she was only doing it to keep him safe, like she had done the night before. But he also knew it would kill them both to know they were only a house away and they couldn't see each other, so he didn't feel bad when he kissed her to silence those protests of protection.

"I'll be super careful, I promise. But I – I want to see you."

She blushed, looking up at him through eyes half covered by her hair.

"I'd like that."

* * *

He dumped Madison unceremoniously the next day; it had been a long time coming and he was angry at himself for stalling. He really should have broken up with her in the first few months instead of sticking it out. He had never been invested in the relationship and staying together for this long only made cutting ties harder and messier.

She started to cry, but he honestly couldn't find it in himself to care. Quite frankly, he thought she was exaggerating her hiccup-sobs just to attract the attention of any nearby paparazzi.

"I just can't believe you're going to throw away all we had."

He tried to sound contrite, play up the "It's not you, it's me" shtick as much as possible to ease any hard feelings.

"I'm sorry, Madison, but I think it's for the best."

"You'll regret this."

"I'm sorry."

But he's not sorry. He's relieved.

God, he hates crying women, he never knows how best to deal with them. So he just left, giving her the privacy to cry into her mojito – and maybe spill to any reporters – alone.

* * *

They hang out almost every day. He sneaks away to see her whenever he can. She usually makes him come in the daylight now; she claims the house is safer in the light, that the ghosts are not as active and bloodthirsty. But sometimes if he can't make it when the sun is up, they hang out in the yard or the ledge in the dark, chasing fireflies and looking for shooting stars.

They play cards.

They laugh.

They read the books he brings from the library.

He teaches her about birds.

She shows him her secret hide away places in the house.

They swap music.

He writes her poetry and brings her flowers.

She lays her head in his lap as he strokes her hair.

They hold hands.

They kiss and soon they do more than that. On lazy, hot afternoons, he loves to undress her slowly in her bedroom, taking in every part of her as one by one her layers fall. He runs his lips down her arms, her neck, and plants suckling kisses on her breasts, biting the nipples just enough to make her squeak. He lays her down on her bed, hands gripping her waist tightly as he nudges down her tights and rolls them off her legs, then her ankles, until it is rolled up in a ball and thrown away in the corner. He marvels at how her pussy tastes, how he can feel her wetness gush out as he thrusts his fingers in and out of her, how wanton she is when she takes him in her mouth and sucks him until he explodes. He watches her as she takes pleasure in his own, how she smiles wickedly after she makes him beg for her, as she makes him come, as she keeps milking him until he can't take anymore. He loves her moans, her yelps, all the little sounds of pleasure. He loves how she squeezes her eyes shut when she is about to come, how every muscle tenses with anticipation.

They make up for lost time, two years' lost time, frantically.

* * *

It was a perfect afternoon when shit blew up.

They were relaxing in the backyard after a particularly vigorous bout of outdoor sex. They had haphazardly shrugged their clothes back on just in case someone saw them, he only with his shorts with no belt and she only with her shirt and panties. She was resting back against his chest, reaching up every now and again to twirl one of his errant curls and spring it back into his face, which would cause him to tickle her, demanding that she give him a thousand kisses before he would stop. She would always breathlessly refuse, so he would tickle her right behind her knee until she cried uncle. Then he would pull her in for a searing kiss, the kind that made his toes tingle, and usually that led them to ripping all their clothes off again.

They had just calmed down from such a tickle match when he heard a car door slam shut next door.

"Where the fuck is he?"

He knew that voice anywhere. He had been subjected to that shrillness many times, when she was complaining about bad service at a club or pissed off at one of his imaginary transgressions.

He jumped up, tugging a bewildered Violet up with him.

"Vi, you have to go."

"But what –"

But Madison had already stomped through the bushes and was in the yard. She saw the two of them and just laughed, the sound laced with bitterness that can only come when someone's worst suspicions are confirmed. As she walked towards them, she slow clapped, her eyes never leaving theirs.

"Surprise, bitch."

She gave the two of them a disgusted once-over, immediately noticing their half-dressed state.

"I fucking knew it. I knew he had a little whore on the side."

The look of confusion on Violet's face quickly morphed into one of fury.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Before Madison could answer, Tate jumped in, shooting Madison a warning look while pushing Violet a bit behind him.

"My _ex_-girlfriend, Madison."

"Madison Montgomery, movie star. I'd shake your hand, but who knows what STDs you must have."

He could see the faint look of recognition in Violet's eyes. Not that she ever paid attention to gossip blogs or trashy magazines, but Madison's star power was quite strong at the moment, so few people seemed to be able to escape knowing about her. He bitterly thought that she was able to sneak her awful claws in everywhere.

"Why the hell are you here?"

"Oh, I just dropped by to say hello."

He could practically see the venom dripping down her chin.

"Madison, I dumped you months ago."

"Can't exes be friends? We were always so close."

She walked a bit closer to them, looking at Tate with a mixture of possessiveness and anger. He was still reeling from her arrival – what in the world was she doing here? It had been months. She must have known things weren't working out even before then; he made no effort to hide that. Despite all evidence to the contrary, she wasn't as stupid as she looked and she had no problems playing dirty. This wasn't a ploy to get him back. This was a power play.

"Not when they're a bitch like you."

Violet's voice cracked like a whip and Madison turned towards her now. She pretended to look down at her hands, a not-so-subtle sign that she thought Violet was less worthy of her attention than a hangnail.

"Shut up, you worthless slut."

"What did you just call me?"

She was practically vibrating with anger, her nails digging into his back as his arm struggled to keep her behind him and out of Madison's way.

"I called you a slut. Because that is what you are. I can't believe he left me for you, how embarrassing. I mean, you're so…"

Madison inspected her again, taking in the worn T-shirt and less than sexy panties she had on.

"Plain."

Violet lunged for her, but since he was expecting it, he whipped around and captured her waist in a big bear hug. Her flailing limbs made it hard for him to hold on, though, and she was able to lean forward just enough to slash at Madison's face with her nails. He heard an indignant shriek of pain and saw Madison clutching at her face, angry red marks zigzagging down her cheek.

"You fucking bitch!"

But before she was able to retaliate, Tate stepped on her foot and gently elbowed her back from the writhing mass that was Violet.

"Madison, you need to leave."

"I'll fucking rip her –"

"NOW!"

Maybe it was the way his voice sounded, maybe it was the look he shot her over his shoulder, maybe it was because she could finally sense that he was capable of doing horrible things and that he would not hold back for her. But he honestly didn't care what the reason was that made her finally back up from them, dusting off her dress.

"Fine, I'll go. Even better, you'll never see me again."

He breathed a sigh of relief, but her next words made him go cold.

"But you can bet that you will never find a job in Hollywood. You're done, Tate, before you could even start. I will fucking end you. Ta-ta."

She quickly disappeared from view. A few seconds later he could hear the revving of the engine and her peeling out of the drive way.

He quickly released Violet, who ran after the sound until she got to the very edge of the property. She spat at Madison's receding convertible and flipped her off with both hands while yelling every profanity and insult she could remember.

He quickly ran up behind her, ready to pull her close to celebrate them dodging a bullet, but she pushed his arms away and started walking back to the house, her angry, heavy footsteps echoing in the yard.

"Hey, Vi, wait –"

She whirled around, still spitting mad, her words coming like viper stings.

"I can't believe you. You dated _her_?"

He ran his hands through his hair sheepishly. He could lie to her, but the truth would come out eventually and who knows how mad she would be then.

"I did, but she didn't mean anything to me, I swear."

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. She clearly didn't believe him.

"Based on her reaction, I don't think it was just a little fling, Tate. How long were you two lovebirds together?"

"Two years."

She sucked in a sharp breath. He rushed to clarify, to try to mitigate the shock of his words and stop the hurt and betrayed expression blooming on her face.

"My brothers kinda pushed me into it and then we just stayed together out of habit, I guess. At least I did. Really, Violet, you have to believe me."

She kicked a clod of dirt on his shoe, her eyes now firmly rooted to the ground because she is about to cry and she didn't want him seeing it, he just knew it, fuck.

"I need to be alone right now."

"But Vi –"

But she had already disappeared.

* * *

To say he was mad at Madison was an understatement. Not only did she screw up his relationship with Violet, but also threaten to destroy any chance of him getting the jobs he wanted. That was low, even for her, but he was sure she would follow through on her threat just to say that she still came out on top. She was cutthroat like that – maybe that was why she was so successful. She didn't mind who she threw under the bus as long as it got her what she wanted.

So now he was stuck in Constance's house indefinitely then. All the job applications he had done to this point would fall under Madison's spell of influence. With a scowl, he threw down his laptop on his bed, his comforter deflating under the weight with a soft whoosh.

What was he going to do? His dream had been to work in Hollywood. He had always imagined that show business was going to be his golden ticket out of this hell hole. But now…

He looked back over at her house. He couldn't see anyone in the window, not even the rustle of a curtain.

It had been four days since Madison's dramatic exit. He had gone over to the house for the past three days, waiting for Violet to show up on the ledge as she always did before guiding him inside. But she hadn't appeared even though he had waited for hours each day.

He gave a growl of frustration as he got off his bed. He hated this.

"Violet? Violet, can we just talk about this?"

Since he refused to sit on the ledge and get stood up again, he boldly waltzed through the back door this time. He had to admit, there was something exhilarating about being in the house by himself again; he hadn't been alone since that first night since Violet always insisted on being next to him, just in case.

He went over to examine the study where that Hayden girl almost killed him. In the light, he could make out the pictures on the bookshelf – a man with dark hair laughing, a woman with vibrant auburn curls smiling demurely at the camera, and a little girl who looked a lot like –

"Yeah, that's me."

He turned around to see her leaning against the open doorframe.

"Violet –"

She waved dismissively as she walked to the chair in the corner.

"I know, I know, you're pissed at me. I'm sorry for ditching you. I – I just had some stuff to sort out."

He went over to her, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her. He reached for her hand and was relieved when she didn't pull away.

"No, Vi, I'm the one who should be sorry. I should have told you about her. It was my fault."

"No, it wasn't. You don't have to tell me everything about your past. I just –"

She went quiet.

"What?"

"I was jealous, Tate. Insanely jealous."

That was something he hadn't expected. She was perfect in his eyes – beautiful, smart, funny, loyal, feisty, amazing. How could she be jealous of someone so vapid, horrible, and shallow?

"How could you be jealous of her?"

"Because she was alive. Because she got to have you for two whole years while I was stuck here, miserable and alone. That evil bitch got to have you all to herself and she doesn't deserve you while you were all I could think about."

Tears were coming hard and fast down her cheeks, but she was still able to keep her voice somewhat steady. He reached up to her, pulling her down off the chair and into his lap, not caring that her tears were staining his shirt.

"Violet."

He remained silent as she cried herself out. He could almost feel her pain from all those lonely nights, her anger at being jealous of Madison at all in the first place, but most of all, her overarching sadness at the unfairness of life and death, at how the barrier between the two rips apart everything good and how it almost stopped their love.

She had fallen asleep in his arms, so he carried her up to her bed. As he turned to leave, he thought he heard her mumble something, but he couldn't make out what it was.

* * *

Even though their relationship had gone back to normal, was even getting better and deeper each day, his blackout that first night continued to bother him. He was able to push it from his mind when he was with Violet, but late at night when he was in his room and couldn't sleep, he would think back to that first night, going over the events like Sherlock Holmes with a fine-toothed comb, trying to find anything that might give him a clue, but he had no such luck. He couldn't remember anything about it, like the way you lose hours or even a day under anesthesia, that time made so that it had never existed.

He tried to move things – a cup, a book, even just a Post-It note – around his room whenever Constance was out, concentrating so hard his forehead was a mass of wrinkles, but he was never able to do it again, gravity firmly beating his brain waves every time. The still objects seemed to mock him and sometimes he would get so mad he would throw or break them. Maybe he needed certain circumstances; maybe it only activated when he was in danger. But with no memory of what happened, he couldn't even speculate on what those conditions might be, let alone try to recreate them.

Was it even possible that he moved Hayden with his mind?

He got his answer from Constance, of all people.

It was around breakfast time. He was pouring himself a bowl of cereal and a mug of coffee while Constance was reading the morning paper. He was just about to head back up to his room when she made a comment that caught his attention.

"Ah, that little witch is back in the newspaper again."

His ears perked up. What an odd term for her to use – normally she liked to use "bitch" or "slut" as her derogatory remarks towards whom she considered unsavory women.

"Who?"

"Fiona."

Ah, his aunt Fiona. From what he heard from Constance's drunken rants about her no-good, she-devil twin sister, apparently she doesn't do much of anything with her days besides drink and chase after the newest anti-aging remedy or miracle pill. They had had a falling out when they were young and haven't spoken since; the Langdon family wasn't well versed in forgiveness. She had never told him why they didn't speak, however. One time he couldn't resist pointing out Constance's complete hypocrisy about her sister – Constance defined the meaning of the word vain and of course, she was by no means a teetotaler herself – which resulted in a couple whacks to the head and a possible broken finger or two, but it had been worth it to see the look on her face.

"Why don't you two talk?"

Constance looked at him, stunned that he was actually voluntarily asking her a question. She launched into an explanation, excited that he was actually talking to her.

"She always made me uneasy. Strange things would always happen around her. We never got along, even as children. One time I caught her somehow throwing my favorite toy back and forth into the walls of my room, but she wasn't using her hands. Our parents didn't believe me when I told them what happened, but I know what I saw."

She turned the page with a sharp crack of the paper, obscuring the article that talked about her sister.

"Then she went to some boarding school down in New Orleans. She never really came home after that, not that I minded."

By the time she had looked up from the paper again, he had already bounded up the stairs and loaded White Pages on Internet Explorer.

* * *

He had to wait until Constance was going to be out of the house for a solid hour before he dared to make the call. Usually he was able to roll with her punches, but if she found out what he was about to do – let's just say that he would rather avoid that beating. People underestimate how much damage a perfectly manicured hand could do.

"Hi, is this Fiona?"

"Yes." Her voice was curt as though he had interrupted her during a very important task.

"It's your nephew, Tate."

"Ah." He could hear her exhale the smoke from her cigarette. He was quite sure that she was smirking on the other end of the line, now pleased instead of annoyed at his call, which must have been a surprise to her. "So my bitch of a sister's perfect son is calling me. This has to be good."

"I need your…expertise."

She laughed.

"Well, you're right to the point. Seems you woke up on the witchy side of the bed with me, huh? I had always suspected. Can't lie and say I didn't wish for you to smack her around a bit or at least slip some nasty potion in her Long Island iced teas."

"Yes, I guess you can say we have…that…in common, but that's not why I'm calling. I can't really explain all the details right now. Please, I need you to come back to L.A."

"Oh, so it's that complicated."

"Yes. Please, will you help me or not?"

"I can't resist fucking with my sister, especially if it means corrupting her innocent boy."

He couldn't help but laugh. Fucking with Constance is one of his favorite pastimes. It looked like he and his aunt have that in common as well.

"Book me a hotel room. A nice one, none of those Super 8 cheap dives. Three days, two nights, for next week and make sure they deliver room service."

She hung up on him, the dial tone ringing in his ears, and he couldn't help cracking a smile.

* * *

"Tate, dear?"

The sickly sweet tone of Constance's voice made him want to rip his ears out, but he got up from his bed and went to open the door. He waited a few seconds and then pulled it back swiftly, thoroughly enjoying Constance's little jump of surprise backwards. Her hand went to her hair, patting it down though there were no stray hairs to be seen. He noticed that she does this when she is flustered or stressed, as if trying to pat down the rising anger inside from bubbling through her cool exterior.

"What?"

"I have to do quite a bit of shopping today. I won't be back until very late."

He snorted. She had a new boy toy, having finally discarded Larry, who had been the steady one for most of Tate's teenage years. He had hated Larry since he had callously abandoned his family to be with Constance, even though it was plainly obvious that she did not give a shit about him. Larry's obliviousness or denial of the reality that he was only Constance's easily replaceable lapdog was frankly astounding. Apparently she had gotten sick of his puppy love and declining bank account while he had been away at college.

She was very secretive about this new man, whom he had not yet met or even seen. She only referred to him as Ax. There was no way was that his real name, so Tate was hedging his bets that he was either in organized crime or an escapee from prison, neither of which was preferable. At least Constance didn't seem to bring him around much or worse, want him to play daddy like she had unsuccessfully tried with Larry. She preferred going to his place, wherever it was, and Tate was more than happy for her to go.

He gave a slight nod to show he understood and she looked back at him, hopeful for some type of goodbye as evidenced by her slight step forward as if she was going in for a hug. He laughed in her face and slammed the door. She was delusional if she thought that he would ever voluntarily touch her, let alone hug her.

He could hear her heels clipping down the hall and soon after the engine of her car revving to life. He watched from the window as she backed out of the driveway and quickly disappeared at the end of the road.

Not ten minutes later, a jet black car rolled up and out stepped a woman identical to the one who had just left, except clad in all black instead of pastels.

He had just gotten to the bottom of the stairs when she blasted open the door. She smirked at him as she took her first steps inside, a grimace forming on her face as she scanned the walls and floors.

"I see my sister still has horrible taste in décor."

Seeing his aunt for the first time was a bit overwhelming. The fact that she looked exactly like Constance, yet was so different, and – if she had agreed to help him, maybe could even be a friend, something his mother could never be – sent a strange cocktail of feelings through him.

"Well, don't just stand there gaping at me like an idiot."

"How did you know she was gone?"

Fiona just smiled as she walked into the kitchen, pulling out Constance's expensive bottle of scotch and pouring herself a drink even though it was not yet ten in the morning.

"A witch's instincts are never wrong."

She sat down at the table before lighting up a smoke. She gestured at him to sit, which he did, across from her. She pushed her lighter and carton of cigarettes towards him, shaking her head at him as he declined.

"You look like you can use it. And then tell me everything."

So as the kitchen became hazy with smoke, he told her everything – how he met Violet, how he later discovered her trapped in the house next door, how he protected himself from Hayden with his powers, how his ex screwed him over from ever having a job he wanted, and finally, how he needed to bring Violet back from the dead.

Fiona was silent as he finished his story. She dug the butt of her now finished cigarette into the table, even though there was an ashtray not a foot away from her.

"So you want to get your dead ghost girl out of a haunted house full of other ghosts who want to kill you. And you think I can help you raise her from the dead."

"In a nutshell."

She laughed.

"And this is what you dragged me up here for?"

"Look, I know it sounds crazy, but just please come with me? I can show you everything."

"It's not that I don't believe you, Tate. Trust me, as a witch I have seen things that for most people only exist in fairy tales and horror stories. It's that I don't think you realize the magnitude of what you're asking me to do. Resurgence is a rare gift. Those witches who do not have it – like you – have to make great sacrifices to bring someone back. And even if you complete the ritual, there is no guarantee that the person will be like she was when she was alive."

"I understand that what I'm asking you to do is difficult. But I can't bear just letting her remain imprisoned in that place forever. I have to do something. Please, Fiona, you're my only hope."

She sighed, muttering something like 'stupid young love' under her breath.

"Alright, take me to see your Violet girl."

* * *

As they entered the front door and took their first steps into the house, he quickly called out for Violet.

"Violet? Violet, this is my aunt –"

Then he heard Fiona scream in horror. He whipped around, expecting to see a ghost or the bloody prank of one, but there was nothing there. He turned back to see her clutching her heart, her breaths coming fast and short as if she was on the brink of a panic attack.

"Fiona? Fiona! What's wrong? What's the matter?"

But she didn't respond to him. She just ran for the door and he had no choice but to follow her.

Once they were out of the house, Fiona quickly grabbed his hand and dragged him back next door. She did not speak until they were back in the kitchen. Sweat was pouring down her face and her skin was leached of all color, making her blue veins stick out in stark contrast. She tried to light another cigarette, but her hands were shaking so much that she couldn't do it. She threw down the lighter in disgust before exploding.

"What in the devil's name do you think you're playing at, boy?"

He was so surprised and confused at the venom in her voice that he couldn't even snap back at her. So many questions were racing through his head – can she not bring back Violet? What did she see? What did she hear? What could have made her so angry?

"What are you talking about?"

"That house is not something you can toy with! There is real evil in that place. The evil there lusts for power. It is attracted to those who have it – like us."

"I don't understand."

"You have attracted its interest, Tate. As soon as we crossed that threshold, I could tell it sensed our power. You've been practically painting a target on your back every time you have gone over there. Trying to do any type of spell in that house will give it the arrow it needs."

"But – isn't there anything you can do?"

She slammed her hands down on the table, her fury at his inability to comprehend the seriousness of his situation evident.

"I am the fucking Supreme of my coven. I was the youngest witch to pass the test of the Seven Wonders. I am powerful, Tate, more powerful than you will ever be, than you can even dream of. And I am also the first person to break rules. I could curdle your stomach with the things I've done for fun, for power, for pleasure. Which is why you need to listen to me now. Do not go into that house again and do not even think for a second about performing magic there, especially something as dangerous as a resurrection spell. That house will consume you."

She briskly walked down the hallway. He ran after her, trying to think of anything he could say or do to convince her to stay in L.A. and help him, but the steel in her eyes as she turned around at the door stopped all the words in his throat.

"I cannot help you. But I can give you some advice: don't be a goddamn fool."

And then she was gone.

* * *

The next day he told Violet that he was a witch. She laughed when she reminded him that she even mentioned that to him the night they talked way back when – she had already solved his mystery for him and neither of them had known it. However, when he told her his plan and what Fiona had said, her response was less than jovial; her face crumpled for only a second before it was replaced with cold hard determination.

"Tate, you have to listen to her. You need to leave. I refuse to let the house get you, too."

"Violet –"

"No, you're not talking me out of this. You shouldn't even be over here right now."

"I can't just leave you here."

"I'm dead, Tate. We can't change that. I'm not letting you throw your life away for me."

"There still might be a chance, Vi. Please just let me try."

She started to cry. He hated it when she cries, especially when he is the cause. But he can't just leave her there, he just can't.

"You can't bargain with the house."

"But –"

"The house will exact a price, Tate. It always does."

* * *

He finally found the book he needed.

He was looking up occult shops online when he saw one named Miss Robichaux's Fine Books and Antiquities. The store's website boasted that it had the largest selection of spell and potions books, both new and ancient, in the downtown L.A. area in addition to many other necessities for witches of all talents. So that's how he found himself in front of this dusty shop the next afternoon.

He opened the door to see an absolutely massive amount of stuff – all sorts of things, books, potion ingredients, plants, animals, crystals, clothing – packed into every nook and cranny. He hardly knew where to start. He was looking at a set of jars, each filled with a different color of powder and labeled with swooping cursive French, when he heard a shuffle behind him.

"I was wondering when you would show up."

He turned around to see a middle-aged woman with blonde hair. She must have been beautiful in her youth, but now she had angry red burns on her face and both her eyes were ghostly white. She smiled, as though she sensed his fear and wanted to reassure him.

"It's a dangerous world we witches live in. Acid is what took my sight, but in doing so, it gave me a new way to see. I already know why you are here. I know it is not in my power to convince you to abandon your quest, but I still must warn you, even if it is only to soothe my own conscious."

She gestured to a back room.

"You will find what you seek there."

"Thank you…?"

"Cordelia."

"Thank you, Cordelia."

He quickly went into the back room and stared up at the bookcases full of tomes and wondered how on earth he was going to find what he needed in all those old musty pages. He must have searched for hours, his neck cramping, his fingers full of paper cuts, before he pulled out an old relatively thick volume. Its title had been worn away off the spine, indicating that whoever had previously owned it must have used it a lot. The front of the book was simple – a green cover overlaid with a simple gold pattern around the border – but there were no words indicating what might be between its pages. He opened it to a random page and froze.

"Resurgence Spell, for those who wish to revive one who has traveled beyond this world." His eyes quickly devoured the subsequent paragraphs detailing what he would need for the spell.

Cordelia waved him away when he tried to pay for the book.

"You will be paying with a lot more than money for what you are about to do."

* * *

He knew he would have to start the spell without telling Violet because she would undoubtedly try to stop him, which is why he went right to the basement of the house instead of waiting for her at the ledge as they usually did. He had poured over the book all yesterday, memorizing the words of the spell, repeating them in his head so many times he lost count. He had drawn and redrawn the symbols on pieces of paper. He has checked and rechecked his supplies.

He was ready.

He had traced the protective circle on the dirt floor, had just stepped inside it and sealed it, when she showed up.

"Tate, what are you doing?"

He could hear the tremor in her voice.

"I'm going to bring you back."

Her eyes widened as she realized that he was dead serious.

"No, you're not risking your life for me! Please, don't do this!"

He reached out back to her, his fingertips just barely grazing the edge of the circle. If he imagined hard enough, he could feel the warmth of her flesh beneath them…

"I told you that I would do everything in my power to bring you back. I promised myself I would, even if it meant my life."

"Tate –"

She was now frantic, trying to think of anything to get him to stop this, but he knew he couldn't. He stared at her, willing himself to take in every detail, to strengthen his already hardened resolve to do this with her beauty. She, this beautiful, amazing girl whom he loved, was going to live again because of him. She was the reason for all of this.

"You're worth my life. You're worth a thousand of them."

"Tate –"

He smiled wistfully at her frightened expression, trying to send some of his calmness to her, trying to make it easier for her as she came to the realization of what this meant.

"One time long ago, you said that you would run away with me. We would go far away from here and be happy. I want to give you the chance to run away, even if that means I can't."

She tried to storm the circle, but was thrown back as she touched the chalk line. Her eyes widening at this new revelation, she started pounding on the invisible barrier, desperate to break it open, but her fists and feet were useless. He could see the tears streaming down her face, her cries of frustration growing louder and more animal as her panic increased.

"Violet, I love you."

Now she started screaming, pleading with him to stop, to just think for one fucking second, to not throw away everything for her, but now all he was focused on was the athame in his hand. He sliced his palm and let the blood drip onto the symbol for life. He could hear it sizzle like hot oil.

"Tate! Tate! Tate, no, please, stop, please!"

He kneeled down and pressed his bloodied hand one, two, three times around the glyph. Then he began to recite the words that he had drummed so deep into his memory he felt that he had always known them.

"Powers that call their home darkness

Come forth and hear my request."

He could still hear Violet screaming and crying outside the circle, but now a new sound joined in – it sounded like the howl of wind around creaky corners late at night, dark, sinister, final. He placed his bloodied hand over his heart.

"See the sacrifice of my life force

And heed my call."

Now that sound was louder and closer, growing in power like a cresting tsunami.

"Bring the soul of Violet Harmon back from beyond

And return her to the world above."

He could still faintly hear her screaming, her voice rapidly becoming hoarse from exertion, and her fists banging on the invisible barrier of the protection circle.

"Release her back to the land of the living

And only then will I submit myself to you."

The sounds engulfed him and the last thing he remembered before everything faded away was her hand reaching out for him.

* * *

A/N: You all hate me, right?


End file.
